


Just in the nick of time

by dev_chieftain



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, Not explicitly mentioned but check the link, also there's crossdressing?, because of pictures, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 06:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dev_chieftain/pseuds/dev_chieftain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton was undercover investigating a Venezuelan drug ring when everything went south. Luckily for him, James Bond just happened to be in the area. </p><p>Written for Meekobits, who drew the picture located <a href="http://meekobits.tumblr.com/post/38686641221/not-even-to-tell-you-how-lovely-you-look-im">here</a>, and requested the story behind it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's cold and he's shivering on top of some stranger with the sharpest blue eyes he's seen in-- well, forever, or at least eight months, did Loki have eyes like this it feels like he must have-- and Clint cannot _focus_ can't stay on track no matter how hard he tries because the drug's still in his system, just a bit, and oh, they're going to be fucked, they're going to be completely screwed and not in a way where they walk out of this alive, he can hear the sirens going off below and--

"Shh," says Bond, his expression fierce and cold. He grips Clint's thighs warningly, just above the knee, and holds Clint's eyes with his. "Count to ten. Come on."

Clint blinks, and again, and then the wind picks up, carrying the sound of the not-so-distant alarms blaring along with subzero chill and sleet, and Clint bites down hard, gritting his teeth against the cold and shuddering. His hands are gloved (small blessing) but they're not steady, and when he peeks over the edge of the roof everything's a white-blue blur, lights and buildings and vehicles and people all blanked out by the sheer intensity of the floodlights set up down there.

Ducking back down, he tries to reorient himself. His thoughts aren't keeping up, though, and he's freezing, freezing, he's still not far from where this whole undercover thing went right the fuck to hell and remembering where they came from to get up here sends a fresh wave of nausea down to pool and churn and rumble in the pit of his stomach.

"Count to ten," Bond says again, but his voice is a smith's hammer and Clint feels like steel, and he whispers, chattering, in time with Bond, counting:

"O-one, two, three, f-f-four, fi-ive--"

"Six--" Bond stops when Clint does, when Clint sags down, head on Bond's shoulder, and is wracked with a dry heave. "Count. Don't think. You need to make this shot. Five minutes."

It's coming back now, but it's coming back slow and reluctant and his head aches and if he remembers right the only reason they're both here and not Bond by himself with his fucking ridiculous outdated pistol is that Bond rescued Clint, right? From the back room where the druglord was getting ready to collect, yes, Bond rescued him, broke through the door already shooting, killed the three cronies who were in the middle of breaking Clint's fingers.

Remembering is like a beacon for his brain to redirect all those 'shit I'm going to throw up until I die' impulses to wildly intense stabbing throbbing pain from his crushed and useless claw of a hand. He feels it now, and wonders how they climbed up here. It must not be totally ruined, his hand. Else how could he have survived this far? Right?

He remembers a dull ache when he grabbed the rungs of the ladder, but only very faintly. Everything up to now fades in and out like a goddamn radio signal. There's that clear moment when the jig was up, when the woman who runs this particular smuggling ring had busted into the bedroom where he and her second-in-command were getting ready to get intimate (and Clint was about to snap his target's neck). Somewhere along the way, his intended target had gone from nearly seduced to incoherent with rage. Something about what they had been sharing being special, and Clint ruining it, and by then he'd been handcuffed and then he can't remember anything else until Bond arrived. He wonders how long that was. He feels stiff and cold and like he hasn't eaten in days. His mouth is unbearably dry.

"I can't," Clint moans into the rough fabric of Bond's suit's shoulder, and Bond shakes him. "Can't," he says again, "broke my fingers."

"I'll help you." Bond's hands are again at Clint's thighs, but this time they rub gently, up and down, coaxing a little warmth back into the exposed skin. "Count to ten, first. Starting from five."

He pushes himself back up, and nods, even though from this angle, the blinding lights are making it hard to see anything again. He squints at it, and follows Bond's lead: "Five, six, s-seven, eight, nine, ten."

"You have about three minutes," Bond says, in this terrifyingly casual way that doesn't match the urgent ferocity of his expression at all. He continues in that same, delicate tone, "Draw your bow, and make the shot."

Clint isn't even sure he remembers what shot needs to be made. He keeps staring out at that painfully bright light until it slowly resolves into clarity, and then suddenly his target is incredibly obvious. The woman from before is walking briskly down the street towards a helicopter on a brightly lit helicopter pad; it hasn't started up yet, but it will be long gone before their reinforcements can get to her and Clint doesn't even have any back-up from S.H.I.E.L.D. If there's going to be anyone, it'll be from Bond's side, and as far as Clint knows, the MI6 guys usually don't do air cover.

He's got one arrow good enough for the job. Electromagnetic, shorts out everything it touches and generally most electronic devices within a thirty foot radius once it's released.

"Make the shot when you're ready," Bond says, almost gently, as if he has personal experience with some deadly situation when a sharpshooter was rushed and he regretted it. Clint appreciates that, appreciates the slight warmth that seeps up from where he's straddled over Bond, appreciates the hands, now still again, firmly holding onto Clint's thighs, just above where the stockings end, as if trying to help protect the skin there. "Draw your bow."

Clint draws his bow, electro-mag arrow nocked, and it is the most painful thing he's ever done. He grits his teeth until they ache, groaning low in his throat, as he tries to take aim. All he can think is, _Thank god it's not a moving target._ It takes him another minute to properly aim at the helicopter, and he's still trying to calculate for the insistent, howling wind.

"Two minutes." Those eyes do remind him of Loki, or maybe more of himself, when Loki had him under thrall, and Clint has so many questions, though the first of them is _do we have a doctor?_ because he knows he needs one, bad. "Take a deep breath."

"This is gonna hurt," Clint realizes, shaking, afraid. This is going to make the broken fingers a hundred times worse when he releases the tension. His arms tremble with the effort of keeping the string drawn.

"Yes." There is a serene certainty in Bond's voice.

"Please, are you gonna have a doctor for me? I don't-- I don't--" Clint laughs nervously, some of the panic he missed out on while drugged starting to catch in his throat. "I don't think my guys even kn-know I'm in trouble."

"The best doctor."

"You promise?"

"Yes."

Clint hesitates for another second. Two. Bond could be lying because it's convenient for him right now, but then again, Bond's hands are trying to get warmth back into Clint and he doesn't look nice, but he doesn't look like a liar, either.

He lines up the shot again, this time with a little more confidence. This is going to be the stupidest, worst thing he's ever done.

He says, "Okay," and lets the arrow fly.

It's awful. Even before the fletching is off the bow his fingers are screaming, and he is too, but just as soon as he starts, Bond pulls him down and kisses him, deep, hard, shoving a tongue into his mouth until the scream fades off and Clint is just sobbing as everything that happened tonight finally takes its toll on him. He wants to go home to Phil and Fury and Natasha and it's been like five months since he saw the ones of that group that are still alive and Phil, he misses Phil so much and fuck his hand his fucking hand feels like it got cut clean off--

Breaking the kiss briefly, he looks at his mangled, unsettlingly out-of-whack hand, just to count his fingers and make sure they're all there. He didn't see if the shot connected (it did) or the plan worked (no helicopter sounds; it must have), he doesn't know where his bow landed, but his fingers are all still there.

Bond's hands are rubbing soothingly at Clint's back now, and he whispers again, "Shh, shh shh shh shhhh. It's over."

It's a little embarrassing, to have lost it like that, but he sits back up, till he's straddling Bond and staring down into that haggard face, swallowing hard until he's got a hold on himself. "You okay?" He asks, in what might be his first intelligent question of the night. Very briefly, Bond has the grace to look surprised at being asked.

He lightly pats his chest, just above where Clint's thighs and crotch are applying pressure, and smiles as if he hasn't got a care in the world. "Thanks to your assistance with my field medicine, I think so, yes."

Now Clint can see it in the faint light that makes it over the rooftop; dark stains on the white dress shirt, spreading out and up most of Bond's chest. He wonders, not for the first time, how they got up here, but admits to himself that the details of how don't really matter to him all that much for the moment.

There are lots of questions they'll need to trade, maybe while they're healing up, even.

For now, Clint asks the important one: "Are they coming soon?"

There's a roar of motorcycles and big cars, and police sirens replace the wail of the compound's internal alarms. Bond smiles impishly, and says, "There they are."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A vignette about Bond being Bond about things.

For six years or more he's thought of himself as simply 'Bond'. Most people call him that, 'Bond', or 007 or Agent. No one in the modern day has cause to call him James, except Moneypenny, and she is really more of the exception than the rule.  
  
He is aware of the Americans and their issues and peripherally, he is also aware of their intelligence agency. This one is not one of Leiter's, though when first they met he couldn't place the proper name for the man he was picturing. Now, however, he remembers just fine. This is Fury's, codename Hawkeye, part of the infamous Avengers initiative that won so much press earlier this year. Not C.I.A., but S.H.I.E.L.D., which when not an acronym is probably a mouthful if he bothered to remember it all.  
  
Hawkeye's real name is Clint Barton, and he is still unconscious, as he should be. Bond watches quietly over a security feed he's hijacked thanks to Q's partially unwilling assistance, waiting for the right time. A nurse checks in, takes vitals, updates charts and leaves. Fury arrives, demands to see his agent, and has a particularly ebullient tirade, which penetrates the thin wall separating Bond's recovery room from his companion's just well enough for him to listen in.  
  
It starts with, "You had _damned well better_ be sending me to-the-minute updates on his condition!" and the unlucky MI6 intern who drew short straw and had to escort Fury in salutes, assures him stammeringly that yes sir, of course, sir, it'll be done starting now! and is dismissed. Bond waits, holding back a smile as Fury paces. He was not awake for M's pacing, so many times before, but he's certain she did just the same. Then it comes again:  
  
"What the hell were you _doing,_ Barton? What the hell went wrong? You were in there for five months, damn it, and all I have to show for it is your beat-up ass and your damn trademark for credit! D'you think an arrow in a damn helicopter is worth the stress you put us through?" Fury is patient, and waits for his unconscious subordinate to answer. His hands are expressive, fingers curling and uncurling. He points accusingly at Hawkeye, whose bedridden status has not changed in the space of those last three breaths. "Hell, we were already expecting the worst! No radio contact for two weeks? You better goddamn well explain yourself, and soon, because I am _not happy._ I may not turn into anything when I'm not happy, but you aren't going to like it all the same."  
  
Another moment, and Fury sighs, deflating. Bond can see him making a parting shot in the video feed, but the words are too soft to seep through the wall, just a soft murmur of something heartfelt and painful. He waits for Fury to leave, not interested tonight in confrontations, and then sets the small phone he's been watching aside. Between the two of them, he is the better off, having been grazed by a bullet but not struck by one, and so with his mildly painful cut to nurse, one hand cupped over it protectively, he sneaks out into the hallway and, just as quickly, into Barton's room. He makes himself at home in the corner, and salutes the camera, because he knows that Q, also, is watching. Perhaps if Q knows that Bond knows that he's being watched, he will be too nervous to play tattletale.  
  
He waits, and watches the slow rise and fall of Barton's chest, counting the seconds on each inhalation, exhalation. Gradually, subconsciously, he adjusts his own breathing to match, so that there only seems to be the sound of one person in the room. Reminding himself that this is not a target, that he is most certainly not here to make a kill, Bond sits back, letting his mind wander back to the room where he found Barton. Barton who, dressed in drag and beaten half to death, still drew his bow and did his job. Barton who, delirious and one-handed, bound Bond's wounds while Bond picked off their pursuers with the last of his bullets.  
  
Barton who, still shaking where he was handcuffed to that chair, took note of Bond's self-introduction, and had still called him 'James'.


	3. Chapter 3

When Clint wakes up, it is to stare into the space before him uncomprehendingly, besieged by nature's call and unable to answer it.

He runs his mental checklist. Mouth: dry. Arm: sore. He looks at it blearily, and yes, there is an intravenous drip attached to him, and also a bag that is probably full of morphine. Nausea: check. The room is that pea-soup green that someone somewhere decided makes people feel calm. Apparently, someone didn't read up on whether that's a human brain thing or a normal person thing. Personally, for Clint-- who spends more time than people should in this particular hospital, possibly-- this exact shade of green brings on a kind of anxiety that manifests in powerful surges of guilt and nervousness. This comes of having been cross-examined while still doped up on several different occasions. One memorable occasion had involved him being tortured, though that time it was some dick assassin who was doing the cross-examining and the questions were for Natasha, not Clint. He used to like to tell that story to try to show it doesn't get to him, and because it ended with Fury punching the guy out. 

Now he is realizing that he's in the hospital, too sedated to be alert, and about to explode if he can't take a leak. Clint makes a futile noise of frustration and hopes somebody had the common sense to give him a catheter. Even though he hates them. 

"Good morning," says a voice that flashes hot and bright in Clint's memory, and takes him back to a freezing rooftop. He would bolt up, except lifting his head is a monumental achievement, and that's close enough for him. "Do you need something? I could call a nurse."

There is Bond, just like on the rooftop, patchy and scruffy and intimidating, even in a hospital gown. Clint remembers that there was blood on Bond's chest, and squints across the room at him. 

"How're you walkin' around b'fore me?" 

Clint thinks he is surprisingly articulate for someone who is on morphine, and worries he may be developing a tolerance. This is probably evidence that he spends too much time in the hospital. He quietly worries that he will not be able to continue working for S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Avengers if he keeps getting torn up like a favorite chew toy. Maybe there are still live-culture tests being run on that new virus that's supposed to make people superhuman and awesome. He could volunteer. They didn't get many volunteers, right?

As he is not an audience to Clint's private meanderings, Bond's measured silence is actually quite strange. His lips have quirked in a smile, but he doesn't seem inclined to answer. Maybe the answer is obvious, or maybe he's surprised Clint remembers that Bond was injured at all. Clint decides to clarify, just in case the third possibility-- that Bond didn't hear him very well-- is the reason there is no answer. 

"Weren't you shot in the chest?"

"Nicked, more like." Bond rises from the visitor's chair he apparently had been sitting in, and Clint wonders if Natasha let him have it or if maybe Clint's not allowed to have visitors yet. Must be the second. Which makes Bond a troublemaker. Clint likes him already.

Well. Aside from being totally fucking scared out of his mind by the guy. 

Bond seems almost to have ghosted over to the edge of Clint's bed, which he knows means he faded out for a moment from numerous other times being sedated and confined to a bed. Man, really. Too much hospital time. Not enough clean-bill-of-health time. Still, knowing that Bond did walk over and Clint was just dazed out of his head for the in-between parts doesn't stop his heart from jumping a little in his chest. 

"Why're you in my room?" Clint asks, voice unsteady. All his defense mechanisms and witty one-liners and ability for subterfuge are currently shot to hell. He blames the anxiety. Or the fact that this is currently playing out too much like that one time, except Natasha and Fury aren't here to save him, and given what just happened to him he's freaking out a little. 

Bond's gone gray a little, which Clint would not have noticed before. Before, there was no artfully crafted stubble. Now there is a patchy beard, three or four days worth, and it's blond and gray and somehow softens Bond's skull-like face, makes the faint smile that pulls at Bond's mouth seem reassuring instead of cruel. 

When Bond finally answers, his voice is carefully neutral. 

"Keeping you safe." There must be confusion on Clint's face, because he doesn't even ask 'from what' before Bond adds, as though it says everything, "I noticed you'd been attacked here once before."

"Oh," Clint says, relaxing a little. "Yeah, it was pretty bad."

In response, Bond comments with a wry smile, "I can relate to having terrible luck." and returns to his chair, sitting back down. "Let me know if you need anything," he says. 

Just as Clint is nodding off to sleep again, he realizes that Bond knows about that other time with the torture guy and wants to know _how_. But it's too late, and he slips down into a dreamy, pleasant state of unconsciousness still wondering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is slowly shaping into some kind of actual story instead of just vignettes about Bond and Hawkeye chillin', so I may eventually update the tags and stuff to include actual content. Plans are to bring in some of the other characters from both worlds in the next chapter. Especially Natasha. So-- hopefully people are excited about that! Still plan to write each chapter in a way where the story could be taken as complete at the conclusion, in case (as with this chapter) there is ever a long delay between chapters.


End file.
